Author Archives: reubenwoolley

take it back by Darius Molark

I am not a silent poet

he can do anything he got us
our homes, our names, our cars,
our girls, our boys whose lives
we hope to keep from pain, he’s
got them too, he’s got our brains
even for coal dust, for reducing
taxes to the rich, he’s done
twisted our heads saying what
obama did was just too much for
the people now we going to take
it back and instead make you work
harder for less pay and health
benefits working dangerously
that’s our mantra things

moneterize everything even the
end of of the day say with this clown
taking what his father taught him well
take houses away from black folks
practice making sure that they
live in hell that there be no white
people america with black folk

moneterize
moneterize everything take poor
peoples’ hours and don’t protect their
overtime take their unemployment benefits
kill community healthcare centers

and their…

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Populism (part two) by Paul Sutton

I am not a silent poet

I.

Oh for a muse to tell our sodden tale,
a dreamscape to cheer the sorry traveller.
Poet, sing us corvid-chasing buses
clearing the outer suburbs, to vasty
fields under a white horse on that bald hill;
huddled victims, and middle managers
of the failing public sector, with their
PowerPoints due on some restructure.

I met the liberal on a frosty night, as the sky cracked and its clear moon exposed our frailties.

Have you read The Grand Inquisitor?

This its antithesis.

He gorged on suffering.

Grabbing a pinnacle (not Westminster, Faringdon Folly) – loftiness in destroying an individual.

‘Children stuffed up chimneys, not with sweets at Christmas pantos.’

Who do you think you are? celebrities weep at slave-owning ancestors.’

‘Degrees in Leisure Studies less deadly than tuberculosis.’

Chronicling a tragic dinner lady who lives with badgers and worships Ferrero Rocher, Hunter’s chicken, two-for-one meals at Harvester.

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Moral Nobility by David Hall

I am not a silent poet

We have become Kings of Chaos

and Queens of Confusion

terror streams across our TV

so we grab our iPad

and quickly update our profile pic

to say we stand with _____________

(insert name of most recent locale)

as we slap together lunches for kids

that won’t eat them

and curse the ever-ticking clock

wondering why we decided last night’s Netflix marathon

was such a good idea at the time.

 

Reality is paused

as our goodness is posed

so it can be posted

on various social media accounts

“Say CHEESE kids!”

insert caption (Making lunch for the kiddos

they are so awesome!);

we have taught our kids

to be selfie addicts

and social media experts

while dressing them in the latest trends.

 

What about

being and teaching

ourselves and future generations

to be compassionate humans?

Kind and caring toward fellow humans

and towards animals as well

without the…

View original post 244 more words

Smear by Harry Gallagher

I am not a silent poet

Before they even pull the charcoaled out,
zoom lenses poking through smashed windows,
they scratch the charred remains for blame,
scapegoating through the cinders.

They’re choking in slurs at the sharp end,
the chip pan fire man “snuck out the back”,
the all tornup shouldering the sores
whenever the almighty are under attack.

It seems like it’s always been this way,
tramping all over the bones of the broken.
Miners blown to bits, the owners of the pits used to smear
“they must have been smoking”.

It’s back to the good old, bad old days
when you hear that siren sound.
Down the ages, nothing changes.
There must have been a miner smoking underground.

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song of a cane flute by Donna J. Snyder

I am not a silent poet

…we are the children of bridges, bridges made from our backs, our tears, our sacrifices,
and from all the ones who never made it across with us…. Junot Díaz

low tones solid as her father’s sweet bread
high notes sing the vibrato of son jarocho
of a woman near tears but speaking still
words deep within the memory of cells

the cells are theirs
the lengua is theirs not mine
I can’t presume to speak their truth
yet their indomitable vigor lifts me up
fills with me with a sense of solidarity
a feeling of common purpose
and feelings need not be truth
but are still facts

the strength of la gente bears me up
out of the inundation of hate
their strength through persecution
through the suppression of truth
their unbroken backs carry me
across the chasm seen between us
a bridge between fear and resolution
inspiring me…

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Burning Desire by Peadar O’Donoghue

I am not a silent poet

We burned the witches,
the peasant cottages,
our bridges, the turf,
the breakfast, our winter skin
under the summer skies,
we burned diesel, petrol, money,
we burned down the road,
we burned bright under dark clouds,
we burned chances like confetti,
everything we ever had, wanted, needed,
went up in smoke, our lives,
the next generation, their futures,
everything in lusting lick of flame.

Except the bondholders.

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fourth advance blurb

things the dead say

Huge thanks to Barbara H. Moore for this:

David McLean’s latest poetry collection “Forever Emma” is his best work to date. The poems scream unadulterated passion — reading like tortured fever dreams of obsession, madness, absolution, redemption.

Stripped to the bone, we find a love story — witnessing not only a fusion of selves but also a coming apart and a reassembling. We’re presented with a thirsty all-consuming love — a love beyond absences, a love beyond even death.

To quote McLean from the poem “she is insect”:

…she is madness in my disgraceful veins, the changeless divine that is Demonica the eternal dressed in words & torture; i am here to worship her, i am hers to murder

In the midst of his more graphic images of blood and flesh and scarred skin, McLean offers up images of sheer beauty that linger. The one that will stay with me…

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